How Wilson Learned To Limp
by Cardio Necrosis
Summary: Ten atypical tales of debauchery, pasts returning, completely for realsies platonically straight bffs, and inconsistent timelines that are, like, totally confusing.


**Warning:** None of this is meant to be taken seriously. Each section is parodic in nature. It is not my intent to offend anyone, it's just for fun, and no section is mocking any author or fanfic specifically. Well, except for _that_ one--it's totally mocking you and you know it.

Happy birthday to thelettermanv! This is my gift to you.

How Wilson Learned To Limp

(And Other Tales That Are Epically Atypical.)

1

Wilson burst into the differential room, cane in one hand and flapping lab coat in the other, a Pink Floyd t-shirt bright and colourful and eye-catching as the door shut behind him. He tossed the lab coat aside, it landing haphazardly on the table, and he pointed his cane dramatically at the ducklings, who were staring at him as if this were an everyday occurrence.

"Why the hell didn't any of you _tell_ me?" he demanded.

". . . because the hives were a typical response to steroidal antibiotics and you said if she got hives then it meant she had--"

"No, no, no. Why didn't any of you tell me that I'm House?"

Chase smacked a palm to his forehead. "Oh, bloody hell."

Cuddy ran into the differential room, gulping in lungfuls of air, standing lopsidedly because one of her heels had broken, and her hair was haphazardly windblown, most likely from chasing Wilson throughout the hospital. "Don't . . . tell him . . . anything," she ordered breathlessly.

"Don't listen to her," he commanded, his voice getting that awkward squeak it got whenever he was anxious.

"No, don't listen to _him,"_ Cuddy ordered, still bent over, hands against her thighs while she caught her breath.

"Well, this is certainly awkward," Chase stated aloud (which is apparent by the quotation marks.)

"Obviously I know something's up, so you might as well tell me. How long have I been House?" he asked, looking at each duckling desperately.

They all looked at each other and shifted in their seats, shrugging at one another. They all finally looked at Chase expectantly, and he sighed and looked at Wilson. "I don't know, okay? You had split personalities before I showed up. Foreman and uh . . . Cuddy had to fill me in. How'd you figure it out, then?"

He stared at the cane as if he'd never seen it before, then blinked rapidly, memories rearranging themselves in his head to show him sitting alone on a couch, changing his voice and arguing back and forth with himself. "Um . . . I was late getting ready for work and I--uh, I found a Pink Floyd shirt in my closet. I . . . missed House, and then Sam came in and I said something a bit snappish--I was stressed; didn't get much sleep last night--and she said 'I thought James got rid of you' and when I asked what that meant and she went off about me kicking . . . _me_ out and I asked her why she kept calling me House . . ."

He felt a little nauseous and didn't much feel like holding the cane anymore, so he walked over to the white board and hung the cane on it. "Why didn't any of you tell me?" he asked after a moment of silence, staring at the whiteboard as memories of his hand scribbling across the board filled his head.

"House is a brilliant diagnostician. He--well, you--figured out cases that nobody else would have. We got that wrapped up with your other skills. So we . . . learned to deal with it," Thirteen answered from behind him, and he slowly turned to face her. He watched as they all stared at him, shifting awkwardly in their seats, and Cuddy stared at the carpet, brushing off her pink skirt delicately.

"So . . . Does anybody know when o-or why this started? I mean, this . . . this isn't normal," he asked.

"I do," Cuddy answered, and Wilson looked at her, although the ducklings remained looking at him. "When Sam sent you the divorce papers, you snapped. You were tired of being the good guy all the time and getting nothing in return for it except, well, a loveless marriage and a wife who couldn't even inform you herself that she wanted a divorce and so you . . . created this alter-ego. I mean, seriously Wilson--did you _actually_ believe that strangers just randomly bail people out because they break mirrors? Who does that?"

"So . . . You and I had sex in college? And . . . and my hallucination hallucinated a night with you after hallucinating my dead girlfriend?" She shrugged and smiled falsely at him. "But--but what about Mayfield? And when I left town after Amber died? And Bonnie hating House and--and the infarction? Stacy? How does any of this make sense?"

"Bonnie is the woman you cheated on Sam with. She bailed you out and . . . Well, eventually she figured out something was wrong, but thought that maybe you'd get over it," Cuddy continued to explain, taking off her broken heel and brushing off her pink skirt again. "But you sought friendship with this . . . Alter-ego because you didn't actually have friends. She married you, hoping you wouldn't need this split personality, but House didn't leave. And then you met Stacy, and she loved House and liked you well enough, but . . . Well, basically, you cheated on Bonnie with Stacy. Stacy tried to explain it to Bonnie but she would listen, and so that started the decline of your second marriage, which you resented Stacy for destroying so you . . . faked this infarction to push her out of your life. Not only did she have to deal with your personality switches, but . . . she had to deal with you blaming her for a surgery she never actually authorized. I mean, come on Wilson--do you really believe a doctor as brilliant as you made House to be wouldn't have figured out what was wrong with him far sooner?"

Wilson still felt a little nauseous, so he ran his hands over his face. "Amber?"

"I actually know this one," Thirteen piped in and everybody turned to look at her. "Amber used your . . . disease to her advantage. She thought that maybe if she started dating you then you would--well, I mean, House would replace me with her. When you called yourself to pick yourself up at the bar, Amber realized you were too drunk to drive yourself home--"

"But I've driven House home a thousand times!" he interjected.

Taub raised his hand sheepishly like a kid in elementary school and cleared his throat. "I . . . actually watched an episode of Taxicab Confessions. Trust me . . . you didn't do any driving."

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm himself down but failing. Memories kept spilling over and over in his head--memories of him buying motorcycles and playing pianos and arguing, going from limping to Peter Pan pose in the manner of seconds . . . "So you mean to tell me that I inadvertently caused my own girlfriend's death and then skipped town? So who took care of your cases while I was gone?"

"When Amber died," Chase supplied carefully, as if worried Wilson would attack him, "you sorta . . . lost it. Retreated within yourself. So we only had House to deal with for awhile, which--well. We all missed you. You're less of an ass when you're around."

"So . . . Did I hallucinate House's parents, too?"

"No, those are your parents. We have a suspicion your father's, er . . . alternative punishment may have been the root for your issues," Thirteen explained, clearing her throat. "We know mental illness runs in your family because well . . . Danny's schizophrenic, so that couldn't have helped any."

Wilson looked at Cuddy for confirmation, who just nodded, still clutching her broken heel. She had one hand on her hip, nails painted the same colour of pink as her skirt. "It's true."

"So, what about Lucas? When House--I mean . . . when I hired Lucas to get me to come back, did you all just tell him the truth? And--and who paid for him?"

They all looked at each other again and cleared their throats. When they all started sharing looks and avoiding him, he felt a deep sense of foreboding fill his chest and he looked down to see he was wearing argyle socks. "Oh my God," he muttered.

"Don't panic," Cuddy tried to soothe.

"Lucas isn't real either?"

"We needed an oncologist and you . . . you needed a way to come back when you were done, you know, escaping reality, so you . . . invented a PI to get you to come back," Cuddy explained in a rush. "It explains why you let him play your piano, and . . . Well, the fact that you didn't actually have to pay for him."

"House billed the hospital," Wilson reminded, staring at Cuddy.

"House . . . never actually paid for anything. You did. With your money. Which is why he always stole your food and why House always had these ridiculous explanations as to how he didn't pay for anything. Like his motorcycle. And . . . well, this angered you so you tried to get rid of House through Tritter--he's not real either--but then you invented this insane courtroom drama . . ." Cuddy shifted awkwardly as she told her story. The fact one of her shoes were off only made the shift from one foot to the other more noticeable. "Sorry," she added with a wince when he gaped at her.

". . . so, is Nolan my psychiatrist? And Mayfield . . ."

"Nolan is the psychiatrist you go to for your depression medication, and he's been trying to work with you with your disassociate identity disorder," Foreman revealed with a nonchalant shrug. "Mayfield was supposed to be a permanent 'mind trap' to keep House away and make you saner. You tried to make him overdose on Vicodin but . . . you're too nice to kill him off, even if he isn't real. You never drove House to Mayfield or did anything. It was supposed to be my shot at leading the team but . . . Well, we needed House. In actuality, you were at Chase and Cameron's wedding." He shrugged again and sighed. "Do we have a case or can I leave?"

"So, let me get this straight," Wilson started, waving his hands about frantically to prevent anybody from leaving before the entire thing made any sort of sense, "I've been eye-sexing myself, buying myself organs that I can't play, fake-limping, ruining relationships, having hallucinatory sex with my boss, trying to sabotage all of my relationships, and pining over my best friend for years and I could've just masturbated and that would be considered making love, and everybody here just let me prance around, mocking myself for caring about dying bald kids and lecturing myself on Vicodin that I didn't even take?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Chase said with a shrug.

Wilson turned to Cuddy and let out a sigh. "And I bought a loft out from under you because you chose an imaginary PI over my non-existent best friend? So . . . what, are you actually dating me?" he asked.

She shifted her weight again. "Technically, you're dating yourself," she answered cryptically with an apologetic smile before fading away into nothingness.

Wilson looked downwards to see baby formula on his pink skirt, a broken heel in one hand, and the waxy taste of lipstick on his mouth. "What the _fuck?"_ he shouted.

Thirteen piped; "You make a _wonderful_ Dean of Medicine!"

2

Dear diary,

It's been a year since I was randomly sucked into the House universe. I know I promised I would fill you in on everything that happened, but I got sidetracked. Once I explain everything, I'm sure you'll understand why I forgot to inform you of my day.

Well, the last thing you remember is me complaining about House and Cuddy having sex after the magical one-night detox and massive OoCness? And then how, that night, a massive portal blew apart my room and sucked me into it and I found myself in a random hospital with nothing but a box of clothes, my laptop, and you? Well as it turns out, I was actually sucked into season four of House!

Taking this as an opportunity that so few are given, I didn't panic. I was excited as all hell, actually. Being as I was somehow magically imbued with medical knowledge and a part of the random reality-show-esque application process that was House's way of hiring new patients, I impressed House with my dazzling wits (and I'm sure my tits had something to do with it, too, since I am a gorgeous blonde-haired beauty with curves in all the right places and soft, gently falling curls of gold that fall down my back and large, luminescent green eyes , and a full pouting mouth . . . ) and so he totally loved having me on his team.

Sadly, Cole (Black Mormon) didn't like me very much because he got all uppity with me because I accidentally asked him if he was plagued to have Mormonism run his life (okay, so he played a Black Mormon on House and a vampire in that Twilight movie . . . I'm sure he would've laughed had he known what I know about his actor) and, well, maybe he didn't like the idea I snuck into his home and burned his garments (Mormons wear these funny temple garments) and then stole all of his CTR merchandise and burned it in his front lawn . . . (CTR stands for Choose The Right--it's a Mormon thing) but I only did it because he totally betrayed Kutner and they were like BFFs (possibly gay lovers, but I'm sure that omfg goody-goody momo--momo stands for Molly Mormon--wouldn't have dared act on his obviously homosexual feelings for Kumar) but anyway . . . So it was a bit of character bashing behaviour. Sue me. It's not like I'm racist against blacks or Mormons or anything, although when I burned all of his Mormon stuff in his lawn it sorta accidentally looked like a Swastika, which was a total accident . . . But anyway, long story short, Cole (Black Mormon) didn't like me.

Since I already knew how he was going to steal the panties and I knew he was going to put me on the chopping block beside Kutner (since Cuddy was going to make him choose Kutner, remember?) but because I didn't want him to break poor Kutner's heart (at the time I strongly believed it was Cole's betrayal that caused him to take a trip to Daddy's Office--which is a euphemism for killing oneself, I totally made it up after watching Dead Poet's Society) I sorta intervened and became Kutner's friend and prevented them from liking each other so had he chose Kumar then House wouldn't have figured out that Cuddy was pulling the strings and then he wouldn't have fired Cole and I just couldn't take the chance of me possibly being fired, so I had to get the panties . . . But I knew that if I let Cuddy in on the plan then House would probably figure it out and then I would get fired and then, well, that would've been a waste, right?

So I totally had sex with Cuddy.

Luckily I'm bisexual and super-mega-hot, so I totally rocked that pussy like KISS rocks live concerts. Since I knew eventually House would have the panty raid mission, I started flirting with her weeks before he thought of it, and then when he told us of our task, I totally waltzed right into her office and snogged the hell out of her, which was out first kiss, and then I propped her on her desk and ate her out and then took her panties. It was awesome, but then she decided that we could never have a relationship since it was unprofessional to date an employee or something but in all reality I didn't care since I didn't really like her anyway and was just using her for her panties . . . However, because of our steamy affair (we had sex a few more times after that, sorta like a . . . brief friends-with-benefits things) she realized she was actually a lesbian, which means she never falls into like with House later on. But anyway. Go me.

So I put Cole and Thirteen on the chopping block, knowing that House wouldn't be able to fire Thirteen seeing as she was still a mystery to him, and Cole left. Thank God. But anyway, Thirteen and I had this epic affair thing and I figured out a few cases before she did and revealed her Huntington's to House anonymously and insinuated that she wouldn't be able to work for him very long . . . And I sorta broke her heart when I told her she was nothing more than a fling to me and that maybe we shouldn't date since we were just colleagues and inter-office relationships never work, and so her depression sorta affected her interest in the job, which meant House fired her . . .

Anyway, long story short, Taub, Kutner, and I were the ones hired.

Since I knew that Amber and Wilson were going to date (and she would eventually die) I sorta worked my way into being Amber's friend so when she dated Wilson, we had a threesome. It turns out Wilson and Amber are both bisexual, like me, so that turned out really well and we had a few threesomes. (I just needed to get Wilson open to the idea of threesomes in order for my plan to work--the plan that comes in later . . .) and then I told House how lonely I was, knowing that Wilson would never love me like he loves Amber (totally lying right there--I don't want to date Wilson. I just wanted to have sex with him and Amber to open him up to the idea of threesomes, but . . . Well, the sex was fantastic! Bonnie was totally telling the truth) well anyway, so House and I started having a relationship based on solace sex and love for the same man who would never love us in return.

Then Amber died.

I guess, in hindsight, I could have stopped her death but her death was conducive to my plan and she was a bitch, a threat to my OTP, and I never liked her anyway and she has stupid hair. (Is it just me, or does she wear the most ridiculous clothes ever? And seriously, what sort of idiot interrupts sex with Wilson because he bought a mattress she liked?) But anyway, she died.

So Wilson left, House and I had solace sex, then I went over to Wilson's and had pity/solace/my-girlfriend-just-died sex, and then Cuddy missed me so we had sex, in which she came out to me as a lesbian and I hooked her up with Thirteen (because Thirteen and I had ecstasy!sex at a bar one night and I thought it might be a good idea to hook them up) and so Foreteen never happen, and instead Thuddy was the power couple of the hospital.

Then House's dad died, and Wilson and him made up. Cuddy tried to adopt that baby but she didn't get to and I guess instead of kissing her, Cuddy came out to House and House was kinda sad for awhile so I had sex with him to make him feel better, then Thirteen, Cuddy and I had a threesome so she would feel better because she lost her adopted baby, and then when Taub and his wife were having problems because he admitted to the affair, well we started our own little affair. (I felt kinda bad for him because he was so sad so it was the least I could do.)

Well, as it turns out, Kutner had fallen in love with me (since I'd become friends with him in an attempt to stop Cole and him becoming friends) but I'd been so busy with my plan and having sex with everyone I didn't notice until he asked me out on a date. It was fun and we had sex on the first date. He was pretty good, and we smoked pot afterwards. But then Taub admitted to Kutner that he and I had been having an affair and Thirteen mentioned that we had too (apparently Taub can cheat on his wife but I can't have some non-committal affair sex with him and wtf is up with Thirteen running her little mouth?) which made him ask how many people I was sexually active with and since I'm not a liar I told him and Kumar totally dumped me because I guess he's a misogynistic old-fashioned kind of guy who doesn't think girls can have sex with more than one person but, oh noooo, it's okay for men to go around having sex but they're not sluts.

I shouldn't be mean.

Anyway, so he killed himself months earlier than he did in my world, and everybody was sad. It sucked, I guess, and I think he was being a bit unfair in why he dumped me considering he never said we were exclusive, but . . . Well, it is kind of romantic, isn't it? He killed himself for me.

But anyway, since we all know Wilson can't deny a helpless, needy, attractive woman (and what's more needy than a girl whose best friend and brief boyfriend just died and everyone blaming her?) so he took me out to dinner. Originally I was going to ask him after House treated that one lady who had her period blood all inside her body, but that was around the time Kumar killed himself so . . . But anyway, so he asked me to a friendly dinner but since we'd already had sex a few times before we easily became boyfriend/girlfriend.

Since I knew House would start hallucinating Amber, I gave him sleeping pills after Kutner died so he could sleep and therefore he never snapped or had a psychotic break. Besides I'm sure the fact he had me as a friend-with-benefits and I helped him and Wilson become less detached (seriously, what was _up_ with them in season five? I mean I know Wilson was all depressed but like half that season they were all awkward and detached around each other!) made it even less likely he'd start hallucinating Amber.

But anyway, one night I decided I wanted to have a threesome with House and Wilson (which was part of my plan) and so we did and it was great! And then we just kept having threesomes and I watched as every time House and Wilson started spending more time with each other in bed, and I started watching more, and eventually they asked if they could sometimes have sex when I wasn't around and I gave them permission and then finally Wilson dumped me for House!

See, my whole plan was to open Wilson up to the idea of threesomes (oh, did I mention we sometimes had threesomes during our pity-sex phase with other men? You know, when he was avoiding House? Yeah, we had sex with people who kinda looked like House. Oh, and with House, I sometimes had threesomes with him and Lucas) and House open up to the idea of threesomes and then having a threesome together so they would fall in love.

So, it's been a year since House had sex with Cuddy (which didn't make any sense--I mean, detoxing in one night? Seriously?) and I was sucked into this universe. House and Wilson are dating, Taub and I started our affair again, and it looks like Chase and Cameron are having issues (since she wasn't 'sure' and so now he's depressed over her dead husband's sperm) and if this thing between Taub and I doesn't work (it's just an affair and really, I don't really want to spend forever with him--he's short and has a funny nose) so I guess if Chase and Cameron don't work out I could always end up with one of them.

I'll try and keep you updated.

Wait. Timeline error. Why do I think it's only been a year when I've been in here for two?

* * *

". . . and this patient is suffering from severe mental delusions where she is part of the cast on _House MD,"_ Doctor Martin said.

I furrowed my brows, looking at her through the small glass window. There was a girl with greasy, scraggly dirty-blonde hair banging her head against a wall and writing on a piece of paper with a large crayon. "Really? Was there a trigger for this delusion?"

"Apparently she's a hilson and she had a psychotic breakdown when House and Cuddy had sex after a one-night detox."

I sighed and shook my head. "If only she had waited a week to discover it had been a hallucination. I mean, this season has been loaded to the brim with hilson material."

"I'm sure she would've shot herself when Wilson told House he wanted him to move out." I nodded to concede to his point, and then he jerked his head to indicate I follow him. "Thank God for small mercies."

I wondered if letting her live really was a mercy.

3

"Oh shit. Who turned out the lights?"

"Iunno."

"We're stuck in the closet and there's no light!"

"I could probably get some damn good joke material out of that sentence, but I'll let it slide."

"Oh, very funny. You'll notice I'm rolling on the floor with laughter."

"Actually, I won't, because it's pitch black in here."

"Dammit! I hit my toe! God, I can't see a damn thing--it's just so dark in here!"

"Believe or not, House, I figured that one out all on my own."

"Now's not the time to--wait. I thought I was Wilson."

"No, I'm Wilson."

"Then who am I?"

"You're Chase."

"Chase?"

"You called?"

"What?"

"You called my name. What do you want?"

"No, I thought you said I was Chase."

"Why would I think that? You sound nothing like him."

"Him? But I thought you were Chase?"

"No, idiot. I'm House."

". . . how many people are in this closet?"

"Just me and you."

"So . . . I'm . . . Wilson?"

"Oh, ha, very funny--come on, Foreman, you don't sound anything like him."

"I'm not Foreman. At least . . . I don't think I am . . ."

"Well no shit you aren't. I am."

"You just said . . . Quit it, House. This isn't funny."

"House? Is he in here? Oh, I thought it was just us."

". . . who are you?"

"I'm Cuddy--don't you recognize my voice?"

"Not really. I don't even recognize mine, apparently."

"Well that's because you can't talk, silly."

"What? Yes I can. I'm talking now."

"No, that's sign language."

"No it isn't. And who do we know speaks in sign language?"

"That one patient of mine, remember? On the wrestling team."

"So now I'm a former patient of yours? House, quit it. You're confusing me."

"Huh? I'm not House. I'm Thirteen."

"This really isn't funny."

"That's because you never had a sense of humour, Taub."

"I'm Taub?"

"Did you forget your name or something?"

"I'm so confused."

"That's because the air pressure down there is addling your brain."

"I don't know who is who or what's going on or who's saying what . . ."

"What are you having a hard time with? There are only two of us, Lucas."

"Now I'm Lucas."

"You've always been Lucas."

"And I suppose you're what, Theodore Roosevelt?"

"No, I'm Cameron. You probably don't remember me. Nobody ever does."

"That's it. I'm finding the light switch and turning it on."

"Don't be such a kill joy. We could have all sorts of fun in here."

"Fun. In the dark."

"Fun in the _closet."_

"Now we're back to the gay jokes."

"Yep."

"So I'm Wilson."

"Uh-huh."

"And . . . you're House?"

"Most likely."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I'm positive."

"If that's true . . ." The light switched on and House, who was the one speaking, swung his cane and pointed it at Wilson before finishing; ". . . then why am I the one with the cane?"

Wilson blinked then looked at his hands. "Dammit, you fooled me again."

4

I often find myself wondering how the hell I always find myself in such strange situations. Then again, considering my childhood and the fact Gregory House is my best friend, it really isn't all that surprising. Still, I often envy those who don't have to worry about . . . Well, being chained up in a basement in the middle of nowhere, for instance.

"I'm withholding sex," House grumbled, tugging on the manacles around his wrist. Honestly, I felt horrible--if what I was going through was horrible, I can't even imagine what he was feeling. I was used to strange situations, I guess--well, he probably was too, but not _this_ strange. Besides, with his leg, sitting on the cold, cement floor, manacles around his wrist, and chains bolted to the wall behind him . . . It couldn't have been very good.

"We don't have sex, House," I reminded, raising my eyebrows.

He groaned and reached to rub his leg, but the chains wouldn't even permit him that. "Well maybe we should start, Wilson. That way I can withhold it when your dumb ass gets us chained in a basement."

"How about we just start with a dinner and move on from there?"

"If we get out of here alive--it's a date. You're buying."

Despite the circumstance, I chuckled. "Naturally."

It really was my entire fault. Some attractive, lean-but-cut, tall, blue-eyed guy started hitting on me at a bar but something about him unnerved me--we'd gone on one date, and there was something about him that made me nervous. The way he spoke, the way he moved--it reminded me of someone but I couldn't remember who, and the faraway memory unnerved me (although I don't know why) enough that I called off the second date. Naturally, I had to deal with gay jokes and overly-flirtatious comments from House, but all of that was expected--what wasn't expected was the bastard, Ted, to start stalking me.

Ted found a way into our home, knocked House out with a bat--probably expecting it to be me--and then knocked me out when I knelt beside House's unconscious body.

"I'm serious, though. If we live, you should definitely take me out as penance. It's the only way I can ever forgive you," House continued, bending his knee and scooting his butt forward so that his scar was closer to his hand.

I sighed and dropped my head back, the cold metal around my wrist digging uncomfortably into my flesh. My head gently thwacked against the cold wall. "I said I would, didn't I?"

"I meant as a date. For real. A legitimate, man-on-man, homosexual date. With me." I looked at him and felt my heart falter in my chest. His bright blue eyes locked onto mine and he smiled. "I'm the only guy who gets to stalk you."

"Of course. So . . . Where'd you want to go, then?"

"Considering we've been kidnapped and chained in a psychopath's basement, you're awfully calm about the whole thing," he accused, the tip of his fingers petting his scar.

I've had more experience than he thinks in dealing with unusual situations. "You're not exactly panicking, either."

"I did a lot of screaming and yelling before you woke up. And let's face it--out of the two of us, you're the one who freaks out over simple things. Like banana peels and milk. So . . . Being chained up and possibly brutally murdered doesn't bug you at all?"

"Help. Oh God. Please. I don't want to die," I stated blandly. He chuckled and I smiled thinly in response.

That was when the door opened and I heard the ticking of boots against the staircase. I watched as Ted walked into the basement, the filtered light from the grimy small windows hitting his face. "Long time no see," he spat, lip curling into a snarl.

"Yes. It's been so very long. Twenty fours hours is an eternity without you," I mutter with an eye-roll. "Honestly, did me not accepting a second date really annoy you _this_ much?"

"Oh, seems we're at a misunderstanding, Jew," he spat, walking nearer, his blue eyes sparkling madly. "This has nothing to do with you dating me. I truly find the idea repulsive. I just thought you'd invite me back to your place . . . I know your reputation. You're a slut."

"I am not a slut," I mutter almost-petulantly.

"You kinda are," House agreed.

"You think you're soooo clever, don't you? Thought I couldn't track you down? So you cut your hair. Straightened it. Dyed it. Even changed your name. I know you anywhere, Daywalker," he sneered, and my heart skipped a beat.

Oh God no. Don't let this be true. This can't be true!

"But you're not the only one who can change. Exercise. Speech therapy." He pulled out a gun and cocked it, the click echoing in the basement. "I had to get near you. Get home with you. But you didn't invite me in. So now I have to take . . . drastic measures."

He pointed the gun at House's head, and I recognized that gleam in his eye, and the intense feeling of foreboding when he'd taken me on that date suddenly made sense. "Oh son of a bitch!" House yelled in fear.

"Now, hand over the Jew gold or your boyfriend gets it!" he shouted, ridiculous accent back.

"Goddammit Cartman!" I shouted, shaking my wrists in my manacles vigorously. "This is so ridiculous! You kidnap us for a bit of _Jew gold?_ This is so f(beep)king retarded!"

"Did you just get beeped?" House asked.

"Yes," I grumbled, then glared at my one-time nemesis, Eric Theodore Cartman. "I don't have it with me."

"Come on, Kahl, you really expect me to believe that? I'm so for seriously, Kahl, I will gut your boyfriend and field-dress him. Seriouslah."

"Kyle?" House repeated. "Your name isn't Wilson?"

"Come on, House. What kind of parents would name their Jewish son James Evan Wilson?" Cartman said with a snarl. "I mean, his initials are _Jew._ Jewish people don't have any creativity."

"We do too!" I defended.

"Apparently you don't," House muttered, staring at me incredulously.

"Now give me the gold and no one gets hurt," Cartman said, glaring at me.

"I don't have it!"

"Don't lie to me Jew-tard!"

"Don't belittle my people, fat boy!"

"Don't call me fat! And give me your gold or I swear to you I'm gonna kill your boyfriend!"

"Just give him the gold, Wilson!" House shouted.

I groaned. "I don't have it, okay? Bonnie got the gold in the settlement!"

Cartman stared at me, the lowered the gun. He walked over to me and grabbed me by the scruff of my shirt, then stuffed his hand down and his hand searched my chest. When he felt nothing, he dropped me to the floor. "Goddammit, Kahl, you're the worst Jew ever," he grumbled.

"Give it up, Ted! We have you surrounded!" came a loud voice through megaphone, and I saw the telltale flashes of blue and red lights.

"Dammit," Cartman muttered, then glared at the wall before staring back at me. "Don't think this is over Ginger-rat." With that, he squeezed his newly-thin body out of one of the grimy window to where he, presumably, escaped.

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose, a habit I'd learned from Stan years ago, and sighed. When I looked over at House to see him gaping at me, I sighed. "I'll tell you later," I promised, just as the police kicked down the door.

5

_This story is based on actual events._

The air teemed with dings, mumbled conversations that waxed and waned around them, and the smell of greasy, over-priced fast-food. Gabby sat across from her best friend, Justin, while a mutual friend, Victor, sat beside Gabby. They kept their food on the tray between them--or at least, Gabby and Justin did. Victor had his food on his own tray, half-eaten. His dark eyes narrowed as he watched Gabby and Justin interact with an intensity that would bother most people, and slowly munched on a fry. He tilted his head in such a way that his nearly-black bangs obscured his face, like translucent curtains. His all black attire only washed out his slightly-pale complexion.

Gabby had already finished her large, greasy, unhealthy burger and fries, while Justin was calmly picking at his vinaigrette-drenched salad, the limp lettuce wilting under the weight of his dressing. "I'm regretting this purchase," Justin declared, blinking his brown, doe-like eyes.

"That's what you get for ordering chick food," Gabby informed as she filched one of his fries, tossing her unkempt, thick, curly brunette hair out of her eyes. Her hair went a little past her jawbone, but not by much. Her blue eyes sparkled. "I've yet to see proof that you are, in fact, a male."

"Yes, Gabby, I'll just whip my junk out right here for you to see. I'm sure the little ones will enjoy the show."

"I'm a girl and I swear I've gotta bigger dick than you," she shrugged off before eating yet more of Justin's fries. "Well, metaphorically speaking, anyway." She then leaned over the table and plucked a small tomato from Justin's salad, putting it between her teeth and chomping down on it.

Justin, habitually, lifted a napkin and the juice of the tomato splattered across it, his face saved from the gooey mess. Gabby audibly whined, then finished chewing the tomato. She then made an overdramatic expression of disgust. "God, when did they make this salad? 1942?"

"Tastes like it," Justin agreed, then pushed it away from him, frowning slightly. "Anyway, what were we talking about?" he asked, grabbing one of his fries and ignoring the fact Gabby was taking one too.

Victor tilted his head. "She was just saying you were a doormat," he reminded with a small gesture in Gabby's direction.

"I am _not_ a doormat," Justin stated, giving Gabby a glare that looked more cute than threatening. He brushed his longish brown hair out of his eyes--his hair was a few shades darker than Gabby's. It was just long enough to get in his eyes and hang over the top of his ears.

"Oh, please," Gabby stated with an eye-roll as Victor reached to also take one of Justin's fries. Gabby smacked his hand, gave him a confused look, then stole a fry and used it to point at Justin. "You don't even like the hooker and you gave her a ride anyway. All it took was for her to pout and bat her lashes a little and spurt a few tears and voila!"

Justin shrugged. "At least I'm not a heartless, conniving bitch."

"Oh, your words--how they slay me," she replied, her free hand smacking against her chest, accentuating her rather large bosom, and faux-sniffed.

Justin smiled thinly at her reaction. "But really, Gabby--just because I don't like her doesn't mean I can't help her every now and again."

"Next thing you know, you'll be helping her out of her clothes," she said, munching on the stolen fry, and glaring at Victor when he dared look at Justin's food longer than necessary.

"Yes, the fact that I find her incredibly annoying has once again escaped your notice," Justin said with a smirk. "Besides, I'm _not_ a doormat."

She stole another fry and pointed at him. "Yes. You are."

"Being kind every now and then doesn't make me a doormat any more than you proclaiming in your loudest voice to be emotionless makes you as bitchy as you like people thinking you are."

"Fine, fine, you're not a doormat," she relented with an eye-roll, then stared longingly at the menu from their seat. She stuck her hand out across the table. "Can you spot me ten bucks?"

Justin reached into his wallet and handed her a ten dollar bill. He watched as she stuffed it in between her breasts and then did nothing but steal Justin's fries.

"Why did you do that?" Justin asked.

"Your fries just taste better," she explained half-heartedly, smirking at him and somehow sparkling her blue eyes. Victor had a suspicion she could do it at will.

"No, why did you ask for ten dollars?"

"To prove a point."

Justin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "All right, fine. I won't give her a ride tomorrow; are you happy/"

"I don't care if you give that hooker a ride home or not--I just want to hear you say three beautiful words I've waited longingly to hear from your luscious lips," she said, batting her eyelids.

"Go to hell?" he offered.

Gabby laughed then kicked him from under the table, but it mustn't have been too hard since Justin didn't make any painful grunts or anything. They both stared at each other, eyes sparkling. "You know what I want to hear," she replied in a sultry voice.

Had Victor not known any better, he would've thought they were dating. Actually, when he had first met them a few months prior, that had been his first assumption. Still, even now that he knew that they weren't in a romantic relationship, he couldn't help but think there was something deeper to their friendship than just platonic. Despite their banter, there was an ease behind each insult. Were a stranger to hear half their conversations, they'd assume they were enemies. Were they to hear the other half, they'd think they were in love.

They had a complicated friendship indeed.

"Take me hard?" Justin suggested with a slight smile.

"Nah, heard that enough last night. But it's a close second. The words you're looking for are 'you were right.' If you wanna add a fourth word, I'll accept 'lover' or 'baby,'" she said with a chuckle.

"What'll I get in return?" he asked.

"Really great head," she supplied immediately.

"Throw in public sex and you have a deal."

"Bring the condoms," she agreed.

"You were right." With that, he stabbed his fork into his salad and sighed. "Really, Gabby, this salad is horrible."

"We're twenty, Justin. Anybody watching their cholesterol at this age, in our prime, is gonna have a serious Peter Pan complex when he's in his forties. He might even date an ex wife or--"

Justin kicked Gabby this time, and she cleared her throat and started sucking on the straw her and Justin were sharing.

"Has anyone ever told you that you guys are like House and Wilson proxies?" Victor asked, staring between them curiously.

Justin and Gabby shared a look, then both nodded. "It's time," Justin said, then got out of the booth and headed in the direction of the restrooms.

Gabby slid out of the booth and gestured for Victor to follow. She pushed into the men's restroom and Victor followed. It wasn't the first time they'd all gone into the same restroom together, as odd as that was.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Justin stood behind Gabby and it looked like he was unzipping the back of her shirt like one would a dress . . . except Victor knew that Gabby's shirt didn't have a zipper. It wasn't until her skin was pooling around her feet that he realized Justin had unzipped her skin and Gregory House was stepping out of it like a latex costume, fully clothed and with a cane.

Victor watched in a mixture of horror and fascination as House unzipped Justin's back and Wilson slid out of the costume as well, both of them standing side by side. "We . . . accidentally got sucked into your universe. We couldn't go around walking like this until we found The One who could send us back. That's you," Wilson explained, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, that makes sense."

And with that, Victor sent them home, and all was right with the world.

Except for that salad, which really was a rank piece of shit.

6

"Okay . . . What the hell?" House asked when he set foot into the bedroom to see Wilson sitting there, completely and utterly pregnant.

Wilson, who wore nothing but khakis, looked down at his protruding belly, running a hand across the basketball-esque abdomen. "I told you it was an emergency," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I mean, I knew Sam wore the pants in your relationship, but holy shit." He gaped at Wilson's pregnant stomach. It looked like he could go into labour at any moment. He even saw some of his stomach bulge with a kick and he wondered if that made Wilson feel nauseous.

"It's not Sam's."

"You cheated on Sam?"

"Well . . . No, not technically, but she, uh . . . Well, I guess this was a little too weird for her to handle. She left ten minutes ago," he muttered, running his hand over his stomach again.

"So whose is it?" House asked, standing in front of Wilson and running his fingers across his stomach lightly, feeling the child move underneath his palm.

"Yours," Wilson informed, their eyes meeting for the first time since he entered.

"I know I've got super-powered semen, but I'm not quite sure it's strong enough to impregnate a male without even having sex with him."

"Well, you know how you're always saying you're God?"

"Yeah?"

". . . well, there you go."

Sighing, House stepped away from Wilson. "I guess it was only a matter of time before you figured it out."

"Why me, God?" he asked, running his hand over his belly and staring at House (aka God) with wide-eyed wonder.

"For kicking me out. Now you gotta give birth to the Saviour."

"You mean . . ."

"Yep." House put a hand on Wilson shoulder and nodded. "You, Wilson, are my Virgin Mary."

"But I'm not a virgin," Wilson stated, looking at House funnily.

House smacked his ass. "You won't be after tonight, anyway."

Upon learning that he was indeed God his ego inflated to such ridiculous heights that Wilson had to withhold macadamia pancakes. But that, dear reader, is a story for another day.

7

"My best friend is a vampire," Wilson stated the moment he set foot in House's office, glass door swishing shut behind him while he folded his arms across his chest, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows.

"Dead Poet's Society," House replied nonchalantly while he kept his eyes trained on the computer monitor, clicking his mouse just as casually.

Wilson frowned. "What?"

House finally looked at him. "Oh, sorry, I thought we were naming movies made in the late eighties. What were you talking about?"

Wilson sighed, unfolded his arms, and put his hands on his hips. "Vampires, House? My godson woke me up three times last night, screaming in fear over the damn story you told him when you were babysitting."

House shrugged. "What can I say? He said he wanted to hear something scary."

"So you told him a story about Detective Greg's obsession with his job and the serial killer being a vampire and then slaughtering his wife Lisa and son Lucas because he got too close . . . And then being staked by vampire hunters Sam and Jimmy?"

House shrugged. "The moral was about not putting your job before your family. Or something."

"House! Not only did you describe, in detail, what the dead bodies looked like, but you sabotaged your marriage with Cuddy and--what, Lucas was your son?" Wilson scuffed the carpet with his foot and looked downward. "And why did I kill you?"

"'Cause you're his godfather. Made sense to make you the hero." When Wilson looked at him, their eyes locking for a second, House looked downward. "You kicked me out of the loft."

Guilt filled Wilson an obscene amount for kicking House out of the loft, and then he left the office, wondering if Sam was really worth it.

* * *

"Stuart Little," Wilson announced when he sat down across from House at their usual cafeteria table.

House didn't waste any time in stealing a fry and saying; "101 Dalmatians."

"What?"

"Children's movies based on books about animal personification," he explained before stealing Wilson's brownie. "Your turn."

Wilson sighed and ignored House 'surreptitiously' stealing more fries. "I was talking about a suitable story you could tell my godson the next time I'm on-call and have to leave you two alone together."

"He said he wanted something action packed and my Street Kings DVD kept skipping."

"So pop in Monsters vs Aliens," Wilson muttered, rubbing his hands over his face in exasperation. "Not only was the story like three hours long--"

"I was trying to get the brat to fall asleep. Had no idea he'd stick around for the whole thing."

"--you had eight-minute long epic fight scenes every ten minutes and Princess Carmen Electra had a dirty mouth and now he's going around quoting her." House shrugged and grabbed Wilson's drink, sucking on the straw. "But . . . I like the part where Princess Carmen married the humble pauper, James."

House smiled briefly at him. "Well, Sam dumped you because I'm that much of an ass and then you let me move back in. It's the least I could do."

"Isn't Carmen Electra your avatar whenever you don't want people knowing you're talking about yourself?" Wilson asked.

House froze, staring at Wilson with a slightly paler complexion and wide, almost frightened eyes. Instead of coming up with some smartass, homoerotic joke, House grabbed a Twinkie from off of Wilson's plate and walked away.

* * *

Wilson leaned against House's doorframe, watching as House laid his cane against the wall. His pyjamas wrinkled with House's movements. "Much Ado About Nothing," Wilson aired loudly, smiling gently.

House turned around to note Wilson's presence, almost as if he'd been surprised, and looked him over. "Tape," he answered, although Wilson hadn't actually asked a question. He must've looked confused because House shrugged. "It's a movie where they literally go on and on about nothing."

"I was talking about a movie that takes place in Shakespearean times and is actually historically accurate. Your . . . middle ages-based fairy tale had hair dryers and modern-day slang."

"And Pirates of the Caribbean had an anachronistic ship. Jerry Bruckheimer should produce my story. Could make a fantastic Disney film," he suggested, walking closer to Wilson.

"Well, Prince James being betrothed to Princess Lisa seems to fit the Disney criteria . . ." he admitted with a shrug, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step closer. "I'm not sure Disney's ready for Prince James bypassing Princess Lisa's cleavage and going into servant Greg's embrace, though."

"You're not happy with the ending?"

"I'm ecstatic. Just maybe send it to Touchstone instead," Wilson suggested and then smirked. "But, you know. Maybe make it more historically accurate. Like Much Ado About Nothing."

"You just have a crush on Claudio," House accused, stepping right into Wilson's personal bubble.

"Wouldn't that be a little narcissistic of me?" Wilson aired.

House shrugged. "I've got a thing for the main guy on Girl From Rio," he admitted with a shrug. "And Maybe Baby."

"Well, I did obsess over Standoff for a few months . . ." Wilson admitted.

"Are we gonna kiss or what?" House asked.

". . . I don't know. How many more HL and RSL movies can we jam pack in the next paragraph?"

House blinked. "Could we bypass that and go right to the frenching?"

"Sorta defeats the purpose of this section, though."

"Screw the section," House growled, then pulled Wilson into a deep, passionate kiss.

8

When House walked into the loft one evening, he heard noises in the living room. He had assumed it was just the television until he walked in and saw Wilson sitting on the couch, his tie loosened but not undone, his hair ruffled, and his shirt untucked.

Also, there was a woman practically impaling herself repeatedly on his dick.

This, in and of itself, was not strange, since Wilson was a slutboi man-whore and all, but it still caught House by surprise. At first he thought it was Sam, back for some ex-sex despite leaving Wilson a few weeks prior because of an incident with peanut butter, an Oreo, two gallons of orange juice, three toothpicks, and House, but then he realized the girl looked nothing like Sam. The woman had long, dark brunette hair that fell down her back in curls, and she had brilliantly blue eyes, cheekbones, a thin figure, and looked very much like House.

"So what's going on here?" House asked, ignoring the slight tenting in his pants.

They both froze for a second, then the woman shrugged and continued having sex with Wilson. She had nothing but a bra on, and her skirt, which was bunched around her waist, and Wilson's hands were attached to her thighs, guiding her.

"This isn't what it looks like!" Wilson exclaimed.

". . . so, you're not really having sex?"

"Oh, yeah. Then it is what it looks like. My bad."

"What did you think I thought was going on?"

"I dunno--thought maybe you assumed I was sawing through your cane again."

House blinked his eyes then shrugged, not having any idea why Wilson assumed what he had, then sighed. "So . . . Um, who is this?"

"Gregorina."

"I see."

"She's your daughter."

House nodded. "So first you date my proxy, then you date my daughter . . . Why not just date me?"

"I thought I was dating you," Wilson explained while Gregorina continued having sex with him. "Remember my failed experiment to clone you? Because you said, in Lockdown, that--"

"We're not supposed to name previous episodes in an episode. It breaks fourth wall."

"Oh right," Wilson grunted, head tilted back in pleasure. "Well, remember how that one time you said there was a great argument for there to be more of you so I tried to clone you? Well, I got an idea and tried again, and it worked, so . . ." He gestured vaguely at the woman moaning vigorously and clutching his shoulders.

"You said that she was my daughter."

"Well, like in that one episode of Doctor Who, the Doctor's Daughter. As in a clone with only you as her parent. For some reason she came out female. I think it's because I added a little too much female frog DNA. 'Cause you know how some frogs can switch genders at will?"

"So you decided to have sex with a female me but not me?"

"She pounced on me. Figured you wouldn't mind. And since she is you, I didn't bother putting up the stethoscope." For some reason, Gregorina stopped moving, blinked a few times, and then disappeared, leaving Wilson sitting on the couch, dick hanging out of his pants, and he sighed. "This happens every time I try to clone you. It isn't fair."

"You mean my clone disappears before you finish sexing him?"

"Or her," Wilson added with a sad little nod. "Guess I'll have to finish up myself. Again," he whined petulantly.

House tilted his head. "Or I could just finish for you," he suggested.

"Would you really?"

House shrugged. "Yeah. I've got nothing better to do today."

Wilson beamed. "Suh-weet!"

9

The night had started like any other, but had ended drastically different. Well, all right, so maybe it hadn't started out _exactly_ like every other night they ever spent together. For instance, it wasn't every night Wilson was dumped by his serious, long-term girlfriend of one month (honestly this was record-breaking relationship length--it made perfect sense they would make such a huge step, such as moving in together and kicking out his best friend of the incredibly short nearly two decades, despite having completely destroyed each other's love for each other when they were married) because of serious, incredible, unable-to-look-past issues, such as him getting angry because she didn't use a coaster. It also wasn't every night his barely-an-acquaintance friend of nearly twenty years took him out to a strip joint to cheer him up from afore-mentioned dumping.

However, it had happened enough (Wilson, of course, being such a man whore and having dated and been broken up with a total number of five times--three of which a divorce--in which House directly took him out afterwards) where Wilson erroneously assumed, for a moment, it was a night like any other. Five consolation nights at strip joint is an absurd amount, really. But in any case, it felt like a night just like any other.

So Wilson hadn't thought it strange when House asked (or rather, hinted with a side of demanded) that he wanted to spend the night at the loft. There was nothing new or exciting about a sleepover with his bestest buddy evar, so he drove them home.

What was odd, however, was the fact they weren't totally plastered. Well, in retrospect, he supposed it really wasn't all that odd, since House was going through his 'trying not to be a junkie' phase and the fact the last time he'd gotten drunk he'd gotten his ass beat at a bar for something he couldn't really remember and Nolan had kinda gotten a little pissy about it . . . And, well, they both had work in the morning and Wilson didn't really feature having a hangover considering he had to tell a thirteen-year-old girl she was dying and all, and people tended to look down on bleary-eyed oncologists bitching about headaches when there were other matters to consider--like a girl's heart about to explode from cancerous tumours and such. Well and there was the fact that whenever Wilson got drunk whilst in a depressing mood he ended up sobbing and getting epically emo which House actually detested and so they both agreed that getting lap dances sober and watching women bounce their tits about with a clear head was the best way to go about the situation, really.

So they'd ended up watching intelligent entertainment that deserved whole-hearted attention in order to be understood (_Family Guy)_ and discussed important philosophical topics (how House had masturbated last night and his cum had hit him square in the eye) fully sober, knees pressed together, and House remarking that Sam never would've made him happy anyway so it was best to move on as quickly as possible.

Seeing as Wilson was completely straight, it was perfectly normal for him to feel a little life stir into his cock when House made a lewd comment and placed his hand a little high on his thigh for the brief time of about seven minutes which was when Wilson looked at House and ignored the perfectly heterosexual look of untamed lust and desire in House's blue eyes for the length of ten seconds.

This was when Wilson, for some reason that had absolutely nothing to do with panic, stood up and squeaked; "How about a drink?" and hurried off to the kitchen.

Seeing as Wilson had never, ever, for realsies not once, ever considered House in a romantic manner (especially not after giving him an organ and especially not during some serious eye-sex that definitely did not occur) he was not panicking in any way, shape, or form, just as he really wasn't fantasizing about how he should've pushed forward and shoved House to the couch, kissing him gently and running his tongue over every inch of his body, to which they would then have fantastic sex and date seriously and come out to the whole hospital much to the chagrin and jealousy of Cuddy (and secret evil pleasure of Wilson at seeing her so damn jealous.) He most definitely wasn't thinking of the time he eye-embraced House after buying in the organ, or how he often thought about the two of them masturbating with each other's asses. Platonically, of course. He didn't fantasize about that sort of stuff, because he was straight, and three serious relationships with men and several times in engaging in anal sex totally never happened and didn't count either.

But anyway, so it really was a night like any other when Wilson opened the fridge and said; "We have cranberry juice and, um . . . bottled water." He figured that, since the cranberry juice was Sam's and House would therefore despise it, he would grab a bottle of water just to do something with his hands that didn't involve touching himself or House (not that he was thinking about that at great length and closing his eyes against the imagined sound of House gasping his name or anything.)

It was when he stood up and closed the fridge door, contemplating a homemade magnet he made of him and House laughing at his second wedding, both in tuxes and arms wrapped around each other, that he decided the author was abusing sarcasm--I mean, that he realized maybe there was something more than friendship in their, er . . . friendship. The idea frightened him because if things didn't go well, they could go horrible. Much like any other relationship he'd ever considering being in, but this was different because it was House and if it exploded it would probably mean one of them having to leave the state.

And then the other one stalking the hell out of him until they made up.

Huh. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all. Still, it was as scary prospect.

He turned around and saw that House was right behind him, staring intensely at him. He plucked the bottle of water from Wilson's hand and placed it on a nearby counter, pushing into his space and staring at him like a junkie stares at a needle filled with heroin. Or, for a less disturbing image, how a spoon would look as it scooped into a bowl of ice cream. Or, for a less hunger-inducing image, like he was in love and wanted to tap some sweet oncologist ass.

Fear reared up in his chest. What if it was a prank or House regretted this in the morning?

He leaned forward and barely brushed Wilson's mouth with his--it wasn't a kiss so much as House leaning really close so that when he spoke his lips sorta touched Wilson's.

"Are you scared?" he whispered huskily, tilting his head to the side and holding onto Wilson's bicep.

Wilson swallowed. "Um, an l-little," he answered, voice shaking. Not afraid of House, but of having everything he'd ever wanted just to have it jerked away later on down the road, leaving him heartbroken.

House pulled away from him, smirking in a smug but delicious sort of way, cold air whooshing between them as he took a step back. "Well you shouldn't be," he said. "You're on Scare Tactics."

This was how House ended up with a black eye and a new boyfriend on national television.

10

When House awoke, for a long moment he had no idea what had ripped him from his peaceful slumber. His first instinct, of course, was his massive leg pain, but when he found that it was being quite kind to him at the moment, he thought that perhaps Wilson was having raucous sex with Sam. Again. Wilson liked to think he and Sam were quiet, but they totally weren't. House would've said something, but for reasons he'd rather not analyze he never did. But then he remembered he'd been kicked out of the loft and was now staying in his old apartment, so unless Wilson snuck into his place to have sex (which would say some rather interesting things about his best friend) then that wasn't right either.

Then he realized there was a weird noise echoing throughout his apartment. It was a noise he'd never heard before, and one that he would have a difficult time trying to describe. It was like a mixture of a cranking and a whirring noise that swelled and faded and House, always a curious person, decided to investigate.

He limped out of his room and grabbed his cane along the way and when he stepped into his living room, he saw a large, blue box. A police call box, to be exact. In his living room.

"O . . . kay . . ."

The door to the police box opened and Wilson stepped out. The odd thing was, he looked obscenely young. Wilson had his ridiculously floppy hair and pronounced cheekbones and he was thinner, as well. He looked around the same age as when they first met, but that didn't make any sense at all.

"Wilson?" House asked, staring at him in confusion. "Am I dreaming?"

"Dreaming? Oh no, you're actually not dreaming at all. And the name's John Smith," he stated, in a British accent.

"What's with the accent?"

He blinked a few times and tilted his head. "Don't I always talk like this?"

"No," he answered, looking behind him and the police box. "Wilson, what the hell? How'd you get this thing in here?"

"Why do you keep calling me Wilson?"

"Why do you keep talking like that?"

Wilson blinked at him, then sighed. "I'm actually the Doctor."

"Well, no shit you're a doctor."

Wilson tilted his head at him and then rubbed the back of his neck, looking House over with a studious expression. "You and I . . . we know each other?"

"Duh." He furrowed his brows. "How do you look . . . so much younger? What's going on?"

Wilson blinked and then sighed. "Well, I guess there's no way around this since I have absolutely no idea who you are and, well, I did manage to just . . . pop into your house, so . . . Well, I'm the Doctor. Not _a_ doctor although I, uh, must be in your . . ." He gestured oddly and scrunched up his face as if he couldn't place the right word to use. "Anyway, I'm a time traveller. A Time Lord, to be exact, and this is my twelfth regeneration . . . Which means I better slow down on the dying, well . . . I mean, I've lived for quite some time so . . . But in any case. I'm the Doctor."

He reached forward to grab House's hand and House just stared at it. "You look like when we first met."

Wilson blinked. "So, how long ago was that?"

"About twenty years ago, but Sam for some reason thinks it's only been twelve."

Wilson blinked furrowed his thick eyebrows in thought. "Hmm. Perhaps we get separated . . . At any rate, I'm really sorry for the confusion, Mister . . . ?" He circled his hands as a gesture to urge House to answer.

House blinked, stared at the police box, then back at Wilson. "House."

Wilson put his hands on his hip before smiling at House again--the thin, calm smile that House had grown accustomed to. He was wearing a sweater vest and an atrocious yellow tie, and the pair of slacks he wore looked familiar. "So, you must be one of my future companions, then," Wilson settled, still in that awkward English accent that House just wasn't used to.

"Companion?"

He shrugged nonchalantly and looked around the room very calmly, as if half-heartedly trying to memorize every detail. "Oh, you know. I pick up people and take them with me on my travels. Like . . . A travelling buddy."

House scoffed. "I'm a bit more than your companion," he snarled, really not liking the fact he would be grouped up alongside a bunch of strays that just went vacationing with this so-called doctor.

The Doctor (Wilson) hummed to himself and tilted his head to the side, then took a step forward, a soft smile on his face. "More than companions?" he repeated, then looked House over, and for the first time House actually saw the appeal of this English accent thing. Sounded much better on Wilson than it did on Chase.

For a wild moment, House thought about correcting him and saying: "No, not like _that, _moron. We're just friends." Then he realized that Wilson (the twelfth doctor, whatever that meant) was clearly interested in him, and so he smirked and deduced that it wasn't really lying, but just omission, if he let Wilson keep on assuming.

Once he decided to let Wilson continue thinking whatever it was he was thinking that was giving him that dark, lusty gleam in his eye, he figured he probably wouldn't mind a tiny kiss, either.

So House stepped forward and brushed his mouth against Wilson's for the first time, a pleasant burning sensation sweeping across his chest, and when he leaned forward a second time he felt Wilson's warm hand on his arm. The kiss was chaste but soft and lingering, and then House stepped away, staring at Wilson and knowing he was smiling but not really caring.

Wilson grinned. "Can't wait to meet you, House. Hope to see you soon! Well . . . I mean, I hope I see you soon--obviously you'll see me soon. Just, uh . . . quick question. What's my name? Just Wilson?"

"James Evan Wilson. You're an oncologist."

He hummed to himself. "Really? Oncology? That's simple enough, I guess."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'm actually quite a bit of an incredibly multi-talented genius. Won't take too long for me to catch up on the terminology." He walked backwards, hands in his pockets, faint blush on his cheeks and head bowed slightly. "Sorry for waking you. I'll let you get back to . . . doing whatever you were doing." He opened the door to the police box and grinned at him--the big, happy, brightens-up-the-world grin of his, and said; "See you soon."

He shut the door behind him and the whirring, cranking, creepy noise started again as the police call box slowly faded into nothing.

House stood there for a maximum number of three seconds before Wilson (the Wilson he knew) burst into his apartment, identical grin on his face and eyes gleaming. House jumped at the loud intrusion and Wilson chuckled airily, rubbing the back of his neck and blushing. "You lied to me, House," he said, the American accent familiar.

House blinked a few times, then figured Wilson remembered. "I didn't lie. I just . . . Omitted."

"You stole a kiss from me," he accused, then grinned lecherously. "Only fair if I steal one, too, you know."

House smirked at him. "It's not stealing if I give it willingly."

* * *

A/N--No offence meant towards those of the LDS faith. Some of you may wonder why I tend to make more Mormon jokes in my fics than most people. I was raised Mormon and live in Utah. There ya go. That section was my response to horrible character bashing and those fics where a fan gets sucked into some random fandom and _not_ a commentary on anything religious. Gabby and Justin are inserts. I'm Gabby, my bff is Justin, and yes, we really did have that conversation, to which someone said we acted like House and Wilson. Everything after that is totally fake . . . or is it?

Nothing I wrote in any of the sections is meant to be taken seriously. Except for the first one. I'm anxiously awaiting the reveal that House is just Wilson's Tyler Durden.


End file.
